


to be alone (with you)

by jasondont (minigami)



Series: a good man is hard to find [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Background Angst, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Enthusiastic Consent, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Topping from the Bottom, this is just porn!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 12:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30122796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minigami/pseuds/jasondont
Summary: A quiet moment in the Slave I before leaving Tchuta-1 forever.
Relationships: Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Series: a good man is hard to find [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2216832
Comments: 10
Kudos: 104





	to be alone (with you)

**Author's Note:**

> this is just porn my dudes. it's also the first time in my life i've written something that's just 4k of pwp, so. blease be kind. 
> 
> it kind of has spoilers of the ending of a good man is hard to find, but not too many (again: this is just four thousand words of self-indulgent porn.)

“So that’s a Wookie?” Boba asks. He taps at the datapad with a sticky finger. Jango nods. “Wizard! They’re so big.” 

Jango hums and nods. They’re sitting outside, on the ramp of the Slave I. It's still early in the day, but the sun beats down on the spaceport, buttery yellow. Boba is a warm weight on his lap, his buzzed hair soft and bristly in turns against Jango’s jaw.   
They've been reading for a while

When Boba sees Skywalker exit the Republic shuttle—grease on his face and white with something that might be rage—he barely looks at Jango before jumping from the ramp and running towards the teenager.  
Skywalker pauses when the boy crashes into his legs, his hands going around the boy’s shoulders to keep him upright, and he listens carefully while Boba talks at him very fast. The anger doesn’t disappear, not completely, but Jango doesn’t look away until he sees his fists turn into hands. Boba may not fear him, but Jango’s seen enough to know better.

“He’s going to be the death of me,” Kenobi says. Jango doesn’t jump, but he’s startled. He closes his eyes for a beat before turning to look at the Jedi.   
“ _I_ will be the death of you if you keep doing that,” Jango tells him seriously. Kenobi snorts. He doesn’t look very scared. He watches Jango, a wry grin on his face.   
“Sorry,” he replies. “I thought you knew I was here.”  
Jango shakes his head and doesn’t answer. He watches while Boba and Skywalker disappear behind the shuttle.   
“He’s taking Boba behind the fueling station, to see the tookas we’re not supposed to know about,” Kenobi says in a low voice. “There’s no one around. And the workers here are safe. I checked.”

Jango bites his tongue. He believes Kenobi—he wishes he didn’t. 

“Where’s Eul’alia?” Kenobi asks him.   
Jango crosses his arms.   
“Back in town. With Gonji.”

For a beat they just stand next to each other. Jango breathes out slowly and tries to let go of the tension he still feels holding him down.   
“Jango.”   
Jango blinks. He looks at Kenobi. Kenobi’s watching him, his blue-grey eyes unreadable. There are new freckles on the bridge of his nose, and his growing stubble is a blond shadow over his jaw.   
Jango’s staring—he knows he is. He finds he doesn’t care if Kenobi notices.   
“What?” he says, still watching. Kenobi blinks, just once. He’s flushed but he doesn’t look away. He opens his mouth, closes it again, and then he looks down at his feet.

They’re alone in the spaceport. Jango knows there are people inside the buildings, inside the control room—but no one’s paying any attention to them.  
He lets his arms drop and then slides his hand over Kenobi’s neck, pulls him down. The Jedi goes willingly. His right hand cradles Jango’s face, the calluses catching against his skin, against his lips.   
Kenobi lets himself be kissed for a while, his mouth warm and pliant under Jango’s and his hands cradling Jango’s face. He’s wearing a thin sleeveless undershirt and Jango can feel the tension in his arms, in his shoulders, when Kenobi decides to change the kiss.  
He slides his hands down, to Jango’s shoulders down his chest to his waist, and Jango lets Kenobi move him, too focused on the way his shoulders flex under his hands, on the burn of his stubble against his lips. 

They kiss the bulk of the Slave I and protected from Tchuta-1’s harsh midday sun, Jango’s back against one of the struts and Kenobi plastered all over his front and between his legs. His hands slip under Jango’s undershirt, scratch over his ribs, and he feels himself shudder, tugs him in closer, ever closer, craning his neck up.  
“You’re too tall,” Jango grumbles against Kenobi’s lips. He laughs breathlessly, warm and happy, his skin flushed. “My neck hurts.”  
“I’m perfectly average,” Kenobi says with a shit eating grin Jango can feel against his mouth. He rolls his eyes and pinches him in the ass in retaliation—Kenobi jumps, and Jango snorts. 

He sighs and leans his forehead against Kenobi’s collarbone. Kenobi’s hands stroke down his back, warm and strong, and Jango relaxes despite himself.

“Eul’alia’s back,” Kenobi says suddenly. He’s half-hard against Jango’s leg, but he seems perfectly content to stay where he is forever, his face buried in Jango’s hair and his hands like brands against the skin of his back.   
Kenobi isn’t good with touch: he gets twitchy and tense. But sometimes he just—curls over Jango, like this, heavy and warm and lax, like he’d like nothing better than to stay there forever.   
Jango swallows. He sighs and pushes at Kenobi until he can look him in the eye. He looks wrecked—his pupils are so dilated the blue is but a thin, pale ring, and his mouth is red and wet. He blinks down at Jango and then narrows his eyes. His hands stay on Jango’s skin, but his mind is very far away.  
“She’s with the kids,” Kenobi says. He closes his eyes again and rests his forehead against Jango’s, and Jango doesn’t know if he knows the significance of such a gesture, but—well. 

He probably does. And that makes it even worse. 

Jango swallows again, a knot deep in his stomach, and moves away. Kenobi lets him, a wry expression on his face. He looks young and approachable and Jango’s hand goes to his face without his permission, brushes the soft, delicate skin under his left eye with his thumb.   
They fall quiet. It’s comfortable, but it isn’t easy. It isn’t easy but it was, it can be easy. Kenobi likes his words, he likes talking and for some reason he likes talking to Jango—but it’s so easy to just be with him like this, too.   
“They’ll be busy for a while,” Kenobi says, voice low and stupid High Coruscanti accent fuzzy around the edges. He cradles Jango’s hand against his own face with his own hand, and when Jango attempts to move it he holds it in place. Jango forces himself to look the Jedi in the eye.   
“Oh, will they?” he asks him, and he knows the humour falls flat, but Kenobi goes along with it anyways. When he tugs Jango towards the Firespray’s ramp, Jango lets himself be moved. 

The Slave I isn’t a small ship, but it feels cramped with Kenobi so close. Jango watches him look, his clever eyes focusing on everything at once: the hallway and the doors that line it, the ladder to the hold, the cockpit, flooded by sunlight.   
“Come on,” Jango says. He lets go of Kenobi’s hand and keeps walking, his heart in his throat. Kenobi follows him. His steps are quiet, but Jango can feel the weight of his attention, and when he turns to look at him over his shoulder Kenobi’s already watching him, eyes wide and his mouth half-open.

Jango pushes him against one of the walls. Kenobi trips, huffs, hits it with his back and curses. Jango laughs at him and tugs him down. He kisses Kenobi once, twice, and then stays there for a beat, his eyes closed, sharing air with him.  
Kenobi’s dick is a hot, hard line against his stomach. Jango swallows and blinks his eyes open. Kenobi’s staring at him.   
“I’d like to suck you off,” he tells Jango very seriously. Jango chokes.   
“I think that could be arranged,” he replies, and Kenobi snorts, his face red and his neck flushed and his hands on Jango’s ass, shameless.

His cabin is to the right. Jango steps away and unlocks the door. Kenobi lets him step inside first, and he looks around himself, always curious. Jango wonders what he sees: for a very long time this was his home, the place where he slept and spent most of his time when he wasn’t working, but it doesn’t look like it. It’s empty and grey, clean and tidy. There are no holos beyond one of Boba’s, taken a couple years ago in their rooms in Kamino.   
The room is small: there’s a bed and a desk and a small storage space and not much else. Jango’s armour is in the rack next to the door, and Kenobi raises a hand and brushes his fingers against Jango’s buy’ce.  
Jango sits down on the cot and begins unlacing his boots. When Kenobi kneels between his legs, folding down on the floor as if he were made of smoke, he pauses. Kenobi places his hands on Jango’s knees and looks up at him, expectant and serene. 

Jango swallows. He cradles Kenobi’s face with his hand and pushes on his mouth with his thumb, and when Kenobi opens his mouth and sucks it inside he can hear his own gasping breath. Jango swallows again and makes himself focus.   
“I don’t think I have any plasts here,” he tells Kenobi. Kenobi frowns for a beat, and looks away. He rubs Jango’s thighs over his kute, the gesture absent and comforting.   
“I have my shots,” Kenobi says after a while. “Do you?”  
Jango nods. 

The kaminiise want him healthy, after all. Jango blinks and pulls his thoughts away from that particular black hole. 

“That’s good,” Kenobi says, and Jango snorts, pulls at his shirt.   
“This off, first,” he says. “I’m way too old to be doing this with my clothes on.”

They undress quickly. Kenobi’s still too thin: Jango slides his hand down his stomach, over his too prominent ribs, ignoring the man’s cock, hard and curving upwards, and lets Kenobi watch him in turn, pull him in. His hands return to his ass, and Jango rolls his eyes and snorts, pulls him in and down until Kenobi’s legs hit the bed.   
When Jango straddles his lap they both gasp. Kenobi bucks up and Jango grabs at his shoulders, breathing against his temple, and rocks down, pushes their cocks together. He may be almost forty and it’s too dry to be comfortable but it hits him then that he could come like this, rubbing himself off against Kenobi. 

“Do you have anything?” Kenobi asks. “Lube? Oil? Anything?”   
Jango stops moving and tries to think. “Maybe. Let me— let me.”  
He stands up and begins opening drawers—they’re empty. He knows there should be a bottle of lube somewhere.   
“The ‘fresher?” Kenobi says. Jango scowls. It may very well be there. He curses and at his back Kenobi snorts. Jango turns to look at him. It’s like being hit with—something. Kenobi’s leaning against the wall, long legs spread and a hand on his cock, stroking lazily, and Jango swallows, lets himself look. 

He’s scarred to hell and back. There’s a trail of dark blond hair down his stomach and while he watches the muscles there twitch, and he spreads his legs further. 

Jango would like to get his mouth there, low on his belly, close to his hips, find a place between the scars and the bone and suck a bruise there, give the Jedi something to remember him by. 

He wonders what Kenobi sees when he looks at Jango. He’s older and he’s—he’s lived a hard life. His back is a mess of scar tissue, ugly and knotted, and his left collarbone healed wrong and sits twisted under his skin.  
  
“Wait here,” Jango tells him. He opens the door and looks up and down the hallway. He closed the Slave I’s ramp, but he’d rather not have to explain to Boba why his buir is walking around their ship bucknaked. 

He pads quickly to the ‘fresher. The lube is in the second drawer he looks in. When he finds it, Jango looks at it for a beat, blinking under the harsh ‘fresher light, where it rests on his palm.   
Jango breathes. He closes his eyes and tries not to think. Kenobi will leave soon. He’ll disappear from Jango’s life and, if Tyrannus’s plan works, in less than a decade he will be gone. He’s sleeping with a dead man who doesn’t yet know he is dead.   
Whatever happens in his cabin today won’t matter. It doesn’t matter how or what Jango feels about it.

Jango switches off the lights and returns to his cabin. Kenobi is where Jango left him, still on the bed. When he opens the door, Kenobi sits up and looks at Jango, one of his legs folded on the bed and the other swinging idly. Jango stares at him for a beat and watches the way the man’s smile fades from his face.   
“Jango—?” he begins. Jango closes and locks the door at his back.  
“I want you to fuck me,” he tells Kenobi, crossing the room towards him. He kneels on the bed between Kenobi’s legs and looks down at him. Kenobi stares at him, wide-eyed but calculating. He tilts his head.   
“I can do that,” he says. He reaches out with his right hand and brushes his knuckles up Jango’s thigh, curls his hand around his cock. It has softened, but Jango shivers and has to put his free hand against the wall over Kenobi’s head. Kenobi scoots closer, rubs his thumb under the crown of Jango’s cock. He looks up.  
“How do you want this?” he asks Jango. Jango stares at him. His eyes are warm. Jango swallows. He lets the lube drop to the bed and uses his free hand to tug him up again so that he can kiss him, once, twice.   
“On my back,” he tells Kenobi. Jango rubs his thumbs over his red mouth, shivers when Kenobi swipes his own thumb over the head of his cock in retaliation. “You can suck me off like you wanted while you finger me open.”  
Kenobi gasps out a curse.

He moves too fast to see. Jango blinks and finds himself on his back, Kenobi plastered over him, warm and heavy, his mouth on Jango’s and his weight pushing him down on the bed. It’s terrifying and exhilarating. Jango kisses him, lets his own hands roam around his back and grab at his ass, at his thighs. Kenobi’s all scars and freckles and pale long muscle, hard and unyielding, and he moans when Jango gets his hand around his cock, hot and thick.  
They’ve done this just twice, but by now Jango’s beginning to learn the things Kenobi likes—he’s always been a fast learner, and he _wants_ to know. He’s interested in learning all the ways he can make this Jedi fall apart and stop thinking and look at Jango like that, hot and focused and calculating, like everything’s ceased to exist and only Jango’s left.  
Kenobi slips from his hold. He gets his mouth on Jango’s broken collarbone, scratches the break with his teeth, slides down and kisses the center of his chest. He closes his mouth over Jango’s left nipple, and he can hear himself whine, too shocked to be able to keep the noise inside.  
Jango gets his hands in Kenobi’s hair and holds on, arches his back when the Jedi moves his mouth to his other nipple, and stares at the ceiling, trying and failing to keep his moans inside his chest. His cock keeps rubbing against Kenobi’s chest, catching on hair and muscle, and it’s good but it’s not enough.

“Where’s the lube?” Kenobi says, his voice hoarse. Jango blinks and lets go of his hair and reaches around himself—he can’t find it. He peers down from the bed and—there. The floor. He slaps Kenobi in the arm and points at it, and the small tube zips through the air and hits Kenobi’s outstretched hand.  
Jango snorts. “You’re such a shabla show off,” he tells him. Kenobi grins up at Jango from between his thighs, mouth red and cheeks flushed and hair a mess, and suddenly Jango knows: he won’t ever be able to look at this room, at his cabin, without remembering him like this.  
“You like it,” Kenobi tells him. Jango scowls, attempts to sit up, falls back to the mattress when Kenobi licks a strip up his cock. Kenobi laughs again, happy and breathy, and then swallows him down.

He keeps his mouth there, gently sucking at the head, while he penetrates Jango with just the tip of one finger, the lube warm and sticky against his ass.  
It’s been years since the last time he let anyone do this to him, and at first Jango can’t remember how it worked: he can’t relax or focus on anything that isn’t the slightly weird feeling of something trying to nudge its way where it doesn’t actually belong.   
But Kenobi goes so slowly. Jango looks down at him, and he can barely see Kenobi over his own hips, but he seems—content. Like he’d be happy to stay there forever, his focus absolute, his sharp eyes half-lidded and his clever mouth full of Jango’s cock. 

He gets one, two fingers inside Jango’s ass, and it’s good, but then he—crooks them and Jango gasps and bucks off the bed, tries to fuck himself on Kenobi’s long fingers. Kenobi gets his mouth off Jango’s cock, kisses his thigh.  
“Another one,” he says, and he sounds wrecked. Jango pushes on elbows to look at him—he keeps twitching his hips in small little circles, rubbing himself against the mattress.  
Jango lets himself drop. He nods, splays his legs wider. He stuffs his pillow under himself, gasps when the change in position makes a sharp sort of pleasure run down his spine.  
“Come on,” he tells the ceiling. He clenches down with a whine, kicks at Kenobi in the thigh, and hears himself moan when a third finger nudges its way inside. “Come on. We don’t have the whole day.”

Kenobi begins jerking him off with his free hand while he sucks bruises on the skin of Jango’s inner thighs, his fingers crooking and spreading inside Jango’s ass, and he’s going to have the beard burn of a lifetime, but right now he can’t quite understand why that's a bad thing.   
“Come on,” Jango says again. He reaches out, tries to sit up and Kenobi’s fingers slip even deeper somehow, and Jango clenches, gasps. He can’t even think. He’s dripping sweat and shivering at the same time. “Come on.”  
“Alright, don’t—stay still,” Kenobi replies. He curses. He sounds almost—unsettled, impatient and rough. Jango blinks his eyes open, moans when his fingers slip out, and then he sits on the bed.   
When he hooks a hand around Kenobi’s neck, his fingers digging into his sweaty hair, the man goes willingly. His mouth is so red—Jango kisses him, at first carefully and then he bites his lips softly, opens his mouth. His jaw must hurt but Kenobi just moans, grabs his shoulder with iron fingers, so hard he’ll leave a bruise, and kisses back, his arms going around him and holding on, hard like durasteel.

Jango rests his forehead against Kenobi. He doesn’t close his eyes—they’re so close he doesn’t need to.   
“On your back?” he says. “I want to ride you.”  
Kenobi nods. He wipes his hand on Jango’s coverlet—he winces; Kenobi snorts, unrepentant—and then they maneuver themselves around the bed until he’s on his back. 

Jango straddles Kenobi and slicks his cock. His thighs are trembling already, anticipation and something that might be nerves, and he swallows, hearing his own throat click. His cock bobs while he situates himself, and Kenobi watches him, his blue eyes travelling, ever moving over Jango’s body—like he’s trying to commit this to memory.  
He’s big. Jango fists Kenobi’s cock, places the head against his entrance, and breathes out, a hand on the mattress at his back. Kenobi begins caressing his thighs, his mouth half-open. He keeps licking his lips.  
“Don’t move,” Jango tells him. Kenobi’s cock twitches in his hand. Jango blinks, tilts his head and looks at him in the eye. Kenobi blushes but he doesn’t look away. Jango feels himself smile, and he must look absolutely deranged, but Kenobi’s blush darkens. 

He fucks himself down slowly, rocking slightly. Kenobi keeps himself stock still, his hands like bands of beskar around Jango’s knees, trembling with the need to move.   
Jango keeps his eyes on him, on Kenobi, and doesn’t tell him he can.

When he bottoms out, Kenobi whines, high on his throat, and closes his eyes. His hands twitch, but he stays put, unmoving, the muscles on his belly twitching.   
Jango gasps. He’s—he’s big. Jango knew he was—Jango _liked_ knowing that he very probably will be feeling this for days.   
Kenobi opens his eyes. He doesn't move, but he clears his throat once, twice.   
“Are you—is it? Okay?” he says, and Jango nods. He raises over his knees, and drops again, and Kenobi moans, loud, and something rattles and falls down to the floor.  
Jango wants to laugh—he can't, he's too out of breath. He keeps his eyes on Kenobi while he fucks himself on his cock, slowly, savouring the stretch, the way the slide keeps getting easier and easier.  
“Come on,” he says. Kenobi shudders and his hands grip Jango’s knees even harder. “I’m not doing all the work.”

Kenobi bends his legs. Jango falls forward, catches himself on Kenobi’s chest. His first thrust drags differently, tugs at the rim of his ass, and Jango gasps, gets his knees under himself and begins moving with him.

The little cabin is quiet except for their gasping breaths, their moans, the sound of flesh hitting flesh. Jango rides Kenobi, moving up and down his cock, his thighs burning. Now and then Kenobi finds that place inside him that makes pleasure sing through his veins, and Jango gasps, blissed out.  
Kenobi’s quiet—he doesn’t look away from Jango, his hair in his eyes and colour high on his cheeks, his hands around his thighs, on his ass, circling the place where his cock enters Jango’s body. He’s beautiful and dangerous and he looks at Jango like he doesn’t want to miss a second of this, like this is the most important thing he’ll do in his life. 

And Jango knows that he’s already dead—he knows that this won’t, can’t happen again. But he stares back, and when Kenobi’s thrusts begin becoming jittery, more erratic, he rides him harder, reaching out for him. Kenobi tries to sit up, reaches back, and Jango clenches, watches him grit his teeth and shudder, feels him moan deep in his chest.  
“Come on, cyare,” he tells Kenobi, and the endearment slips his mouth unbidden, like it’s been there, waiting, for hours, and it feels natural and it shouldn’t but now it’s out and Kenobi’s coming with a shout.

For a beat they just breathe. Jango hasn’t finished yet, and he fists his cock, intending to jerk off, too wired and impatient to wait, but Kenobi moves his hand and sits up. His cock slips from Jango’s ass, and he hisses, but then Kenobi’s pulling at his legs, trying to move him, and he looks half out of it but Jango obeys.

He ends up coming with his cock in Kenobi’s throat, the man kneeling between his legs on the floor, and afterwards he sags on the mattress, breathing hard, his hand in Kenobi’s hair and the man still between his legs.  
Jango tugs at him, and Kenobi stands up with a grunt and drops beside him. They’re sticky with sweat and come—Jango can feel something dripping down his leg. Soon enough Jango will stop finding it uncomfortable and begin finding it absolutely disgusting, but for now they just let themselves breathe, lying side by side on the narrow bed, Kenobi half-sprawled over him, his left hand around Jango’s hip and his head tucked under his chin. 

Jango feels himself falling asleep, and he blinks his eyes open. But it’s hard: he’s tired and Kenobi’s warm. When the Jedi moves and gets out of the bed he grunts and grumbles, but Kenobi just laughs softly. He kisses Jango on the cheek and moves away. Jango listens to him moving around the room, too tired to care. He wipes Jango down and then cleans himself off with what seems to be Jango’s undershirt—he should feel angrier than he actually is about this, but orgasm has left him stupid—and then tugs and prods at Jango until he can strip the covers off the bed.  
He leaves everything on the floor and then returns to Jango’s side, as if nothing had happened, and Jango snorts.   
“Gonna help me do my laundry too?” he asks. Kenobi is a long line of warmth at his back, and Jango feels it when he laughs again, hoarse and low.  
He knows Kenobi says something—but he doesn’t hear it. Jango falls and sleep catches him.

Later they’ll wake up with a start, and they’ll have to rush to the ‘fresher and clean themselves off. They’ll fall into bed twice more, and then they’ll go their separate ways, and won’t see each other for another five years.

But now: they sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> jango fett, power bottom


End file.
